Rishi Kulkarni
Monday Mourning
The Monday morning at Chai & Chat Media Pvt. Ltd., a mid-sized marketing agency in the heart of Koramangala, Bengaluru, began like any other—late.
The office, located on the third floor of a building with exactly one working lift (which frequently stopped at every floor uninvited), had a culture of “flexible timing”—which really meant “come in before lunch, if possible.”
By 10:47 AM, only four people had arrived:
- Sonal, the Operations Head who liked spreadsheets more than people.
- Tapan, the sleepy-eyed graphic designer who claimed he was “most creative post 2 AM.”
- Jignesh, the self-declared Office DJ who once played “Chammak Challo” during a client presentation.
- And Aarav, the intern, whose soul had left his body somewhere between the BMTC bus ride and the stairs.
Sonal had her headphones on and was busy typing ferociously, probably fighting with a vendor over Google Sheets. Tapan was slouched over his MacBook, staring at an empty Photoshop window like it owed him money. Jignesh was attempting to balance a paper cup of coffee on his mousepad—unsuccessfully.
And Aarav?
He had just opened the pantry door—and froze.
The coffee machine was gone.
Gone. Not broken. Not unplugged. Not humming mysteriously in the corner. Gone-gone.
There was a space where it used to be—a little patch of dustless counter, like a crime scene. The microwave and the leaky water dispenser stood silently beside it, as if mourning the loss of a colleague.
Aarav blinked. “No. No. No no no no…”
Tapan wandered in, rubbing his eyes.
“What’s with the panic, intern?” he yawned.
Aarav pointed at the void. “The machine. It’s… missing.”
Tapan frowned, peered at the empty space, then checked the floor, as if it might have rolled away like R2-D2.
“Maybe someone moved it for cleaning?”
“Who cleans in this office?” Aarav asked, which was both rhetorical and a little sad.
Just then, Sonal stormed in like an IRS agent mid-raid. “Okay, who took it?” she demanded.
“You noticed?” Aarav said, stunned.
“I noticed because I just tried to run the staff productivity report and it crashed Excel. Which usually only happens when the coffee machine is offline. That machine runs on Wi-Fi now!”
Tapan said, “How is that possible?”
“Because we installed a ‘Smart Brew System,’ remember? That pitch from Nikhil in Admin about boosting morale? He bought it with the ‘Employee Wellness Budget.’”
“Wait,” said Aarav, “we had a budget for wellness?”
Sonal sighed. “Yes. It used to fund yoga mats. Then someone used them to sleep under their desk.”
Enter: Pooja, the HR executive who only wore pastel sarees and carried a file labelled “DO NOT TOUCH.” She walked in with a purposeful stride and a clipboard of judgment.
“I just got the Slack ping,” she said. “We’ve confirmed the worst.”
“The coffee machine?” asked Sonal.
“Gone,” Pooja said gravely. “Vanished sometime between 7:30 PM Friday and 9:15 AM today. CCTV in the hallway was mysteriously turned off.”
Tapan narrowed his eyes. “This… was a heist.”
The Suspect List
By 11:32 AM, the entire office was in a state of controlled chaos.
Not because of deadlines or client calls—those could wait—but because caffeine was a right, not a privilege, and the machine that dispensed salvation had vanished without a trace.
Pooja, now self-appointed “Investigation Lead” (HR always found ways to be in charge), gathered the team in the Brainstorm Room, which had exactly one working whiteboard and a sofa that squeaked with judgment every time someone sat on it.
“This is now a formal inquiry,” she said, clicking a pen with unnecessary aggression. “We will follow procedure.”
“Wait, we have an actual procedure for this?” asked Siddharth, the copywriter who had just arrived and looked suspiciously well-rested.
“We have a Google Form,” she clarified. “But I’m taking verbal statements. Old-school.”
Sonal crossed her arms. “Let’s just cut to it. Who had the motive?”
Pooja turned to the whiteboard and wrote in large, bold letters:
SUSPECT LIST
- Rajeev from Admin – Known hater of technology. Once tried to remove the office printer with a screwdriver after it jammed his leave request.
- Neha from Legal – Frequently brought her own artisanal pour-over coffee and mocked the office brew with lines like, “Tastes like hot mud.”
- Nikhil (the Admin guy who bought the machine) – Suspiciously absent since Friday evening. Claimed “family emergency.” Classic excuse.
- Ajay the Watchman – The last person seen near the pantry Friday night. Carries keys to every door. Could easily sneak in and out.
- Maya from Finance – Once threatened to “cut the caffeine supply” if people didn’t submit their expense reports.
“Where is Nikhil anyway?” Aarav asked. “His desk has a stale samosa and an unopened courier marked urgent.”
Jignesh, now livestreaming the chaos on Instagram with the caption #OfficeCrime, chimed in: “He posted a selfie from Cubbon Park on Saturday with the caption ‘Letting go of attachments.’”
“Did… he mean the machine?” Aarav whispered.
“I once saw him talking to it,” Sonal said, deadpan. “Called it ‘Java Jaanu.’ I thought he was just lonely.”
A pause.
“That tracks,” said Tapan, nodding.
Just then, the Slack notification sound went off across multiple laptops simultaneously. A message had appeared in the #general channel.
UNKNOWN USER:
“Don’t panic. Your beloved machine is safe. But if you want her back, you’ll follow my instructions. Starting now.”
Chaos.
Phones dropped. Mouths gaped. Someone (probably Siddharth) gasped loud enough to echo.
“Is this… a ransom note?” Pooja said, blinking.
“Did they just… refer to the machine as her?” asked Aarav.
Tapan turned to the group dramatically. “We’re not just in a heist anymore. We’re in a hostage situation.”
The Demands
The Slack message continued, line by line:
UNKNOWN USER:
- No police. No IT guy.
- Bring a tray of hot vada pav to the rooftop by 1:30 PM.
- Come alone.
- Leave it near the water tank.
- Do not look back.
“Vada pav?” Sonal said, incredulous.
“They kidnapped a machine for… fried carbs?” asked Pooja.
“They’re stalling,” said Tapan, pacing like a detective in a Netflix series. “They’re playing mind games. Classic Bangalore burnout behavior.”
Aarav raised a hand. “Can I just ask… why not just bring in a new machine?”
Everyone turned to him as if he’d said something truly offensive.
“Because,” Sonal said slowly, “that one had presets. Cappuccino, Americano, and—most importantly—Half Shot + 3 Sugar which was my personal setting.”
“It also made that happy gurgling sound at the end,” Jignesh added. “Like a blessing from the beverage gods.”
“It was the only thing in this office with a consistent output,” Siddharth muttered.
They stared at the screen.
“Who’s going to the roof?” Sonal asked.
Everyone looked at Aarav.
“Oh come on—why is it always the intern?”
“Because if things go wrong,” Pooja said sweetly, “you’re the only one not on payroll yet.”
Rooftop Revelations
At 1:27 PM, Aarav stood on the rooftop, sweating slightly in the midday sun, holding a steel tray of vada pav wrapped in newspaper. The sky was blue. The water tank loomed. Pigeons shuffled ominously.
He placed the tray down. Waited. Looked over his shoulder. Nothing.
Then—movement.
A door creaked. A figure stepped out from behind the tank, wearing a hoodie and a motorcycle helmet.
Aarav squinted. “Nikhil?”
The helmet came off.
“NEHA?!”
“Surprise,” she said with a wicked grin. “Didn’t think Legal had guts, did you?”
“You stole the coffee machine?”
“I liberated it,” she said. “That machine was a crime against taste buds. I took it home. Reprogrammed it. It now makes pour-over style at 96°C, not that plastic-piping nonsense.”
Aarav blinked. “So you’re… holding it ransom because… you want to upgrade us?”
“Exactly. This is a revolution.”
Behind her, Nikhil emerged, sheepishly holding the coffee machine like a newborn child.
“She convinced me,” he mumbled. “She said she could improve it. I just wanted her to like me.”
“You hacked the Smart Brew?” Aarav asked.
“I used ChatGPT,” Neha said. “Don’t tell IT.”
The Office Strikes Back
Downstairs, the office buzzed like a beehive on Red Bull. The rest of the team had been monitoring the rooftop situation from the CCTV feed, which, conveniently, had mysteriously “reconnected” just after the ransom note.
“Neha?” Sonal said, jaw clenched. “Of course. Legal always thinks they’re above the law.”
“She’s in the law,” Pooja muttered.
Meanwhile, Siddharth had started drafting what he called “The Vada Pav Memoir,” while Tapan was working on a mock poster titled Mission: Cappuccinpossible.
“Should we… retaliate?” Jignesh asked. “Or, like, form a rescue party? Like Avengers, but for caffeine?”
Sonal paced. “We need leverage. If we want that machine back in one piece, we have to think smarter. Who knows Neha best?”
Everyone looked around.
“Don’t look at me,” Pooja said. “I only talk to her during mandatory diversity training.”
“What about Nikhil?” asked Aarav, rejoining the team from his rooftop mission. “He seemed pretty… attached.”
“Oh please,” Tapan said. “Nikhil develops a crush on anything with sharp edges and the ability to brew.”
Pooja clapped her hands. “Focus. What does Neha want?”
“Respect,” Sonal said. “Control. Coffee that doesn’t taste like diluted regret.”
“Impossible,” muttered Jignesh. “We use milk powder from 2019.”
“Wait,” Aarav said, “what if… we challenge her?”
Everyone turned.
“To what?” asked Pooja.
“To a brew-off,” Aarav said. “Her ‘reprogrammed’ machine vs. the one in Admin. We’ll have a blind taste test. Winner stays. Loser retires.”
Silence.
“That’s… not the worst idea I’ve heard today,” Sonal admitted.
“That would be your idea to rename the breakroom ‘The Hydration Hub,’” Siddharth offered.
“Shut up,” she said.
The Brew-Off
Two hours later, the Brainstorm Room had been transformed into a caffeine coliseum.
Two machines. One winner.
On the left: the humble, overused Admin Machine—reliable, bland, with buttons that sometimes shocked you.
On the right: Java Jaanu 2.0—Neha’s reprogrammed masterpiece, now with a glossy black panel and a “Namaste” sound when it powered on.
Judges:
- Tapan (Artist’s Tongue)
- Sonal (Productivity Purist)
- Jignesh (Flavor Gambler)
- Aarav (Common Man)
- Pooja (Neutral HR Entity, allegedly)
Each judge would get two cups, labelled only A and B.
The rules were clear:
- No additives.
- No sugar.
- One sip per judge.
- Majority vote wins.
Round One: The Sip
Each judge sipped. Thought. Sipped again. Some nodded. Some frowned. Tapan swirled his like it was wine.
Jignesh asked, “Can I sniff it one more time?”
Pooja said, “It’s not an interview. Drink it and vote.”
After a dramatic pause, the results came in:
- Tapan: Cup A. “More character.”
- Sonal: Cup A. “Less bitterness. More balance.”
- Jignesh: Cup B. “I like the chaos. Like my playlist.”
- Pooja: Cup A. “Smoother finish.”
- Aarav: “Honestly? Cup A just feels… right.”
Neha folded her arms, lips pressed.
“You win,” she said quietly.
The room erupted in celebration. Aarav was hoisted onto a chair. Someone blasted “Chaiyya Chaiyya” on the speakers for no reason. Cup A—Admin Machine—was declared the official coffee partner of the office.
But then—Neha smiled.
A slow, dangerous smile.
“You know what?” she said. “Fine. You win this round. But the next hackathon… it’s on.”
“Hackathon?” Pooja asked.
“Legal has started coding,” Sonal whispered. “We’re doomed.”
One Week Later
The machine was returned, polished and glowing. A sticky note on it read:
“Miss me? –N”
Productivity soared. Designs were delivered on time (relatively). Clients received actual replies. Aarav was offered a stipend raise of ₹500 and a coffee mug that said “Intern Lives Matter.”
Nikhil returned to work with a new haircut and a philosophical vibe. He now brewed filter coffee manually at his desk and claimed it helped him “center his chakra.”
Neha? She installed a personal espresso machine labeled “EXHIBIT A” in her cabin. She now worked with suspicious intensity and often muttered in JavaScript.
Sonal added a new item to the company policy:
Clause 12.4.3: Theft of caffeinated appliances = grounds for mild HR warning.
As for the coffee machine?
It stood proudly once more in the pantry.
Faithful. Fuming.
Occasionally humming “Namaste.”
And sometimes—just sometimes—if you pressed the right button and listened closely… it whispered,
“Never forget the vada pav.”
~ The End ~
